


Another Dream, Another Show

by thatsrightdollface



Category: Hiveswap, Homestuck
Genre: All the World’s a Stage (or a Circus), Chucklevoodoos: how do they work?, Clown Religion, Dreams, Friendship, Gen, I have no excuses, I went back and changed it to "graphic depictions of violence", I'm not sure how graphic it is really, Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe, Introspection, Swearing, but just in case!!!, clownfest 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23719846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsrightdollface/pseuds/thatsrightdollface
Summary: Marvus has had this dream about running a three-ring circus that is Alternia’s own broken universe before.  But this time, he’s sharing it with a friend.Written for Clownfest 2020 on Tumblr, for the Day 7 prompt: Dreams.
Relationships: Marvus Xoloto & MSPA Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26





	Another Dream, Another Show

**Author's Note:**

> Um, hi!!! I hope you enjoy this, if you read it. I wasn’t exactly sure what this was gonna be until it had already happened... it turned out to be heavily inspired by “The Conqueror Worm” by Edgar Allan Poe, what with the “theater of the world” approach. I‘m truly sorry for anything I might’ve gotten wrong/weird!!!
> 
> Thank you!!! And thank you to clusband for running this Clownfest event on tumblr -- geez it's a fun idea~

There was glitter caught in Marvus Xoloto’s hair, and mud on the soles of his boots. His ringmaster tux was royal purple and spangly, hanging with oily gold and sequins, flecks of blood still dried on one of the sleeves. He was standing with his head bowed, waiting before the three rings of the circus. This circus was his world, you know? Only it wasn’t. 

In real life — as his messiahs’-honest waking self — Marvus’s world was his friends and his faith, his music and his wants. Marvus’s world was what had to come next, where he’d get all drawn away to those hungry stars, shaped into something new in service of the empress that drowned worlds. Clowntown, and Alternia, and a shuddering battleship somewhere with Marvus’s fucking name on it. He could swing his cane around all jauntily in space, too. He could slice the hidden blade out of it, sharp as a punchline, and send some poor alien’s guts bubbling down at his feet like ritual. Like an offering set before a statue. Like a bottle of Faygo, shaken up, fizzing over a brother in faith's waiting claws. But Marvus wasn’t gonna be about that yet; Marvus held his cane folded neatly behind him, waiting for the greasy circus-tent lights to snap to life. 

Marvus took a deep breath, and the air smelled like clown paint and cotton candy, like spilled soda and grease. He slid one of his eyes open just the littlest bit, and smirked at his friend watching him from the front row. His friend was an alien, just like the empress who drowned worlds would have wanted him to kill. But Marvus’s friend gave him a double thumbs-up, and he chuckled deep in his chest. What a good friend, coming to see these shows that weren’t for-real shows, even though it’d been so long since Marvus had gotten to hang with them. Wonder what they were doing right now. Wonder if they’d ever message back again. Marvus had sent word through all the safe purpleblood channels he knew to keep an eye out for his friend, in case they wandered themself into danger again. In case they needed somebody to step in and claim whatever show they’d gotten mixed up with. Change the song that was playing, so to speak. Somebody to stand between them and everything unfunny and ruinous, whether or not it did any good. Bring them home, too, if they wanted. If Marvus could swing it. 

Buddies looked after buddies. That much had always been obvious, same as the divine stardust-dizzy murdermirth was for so many of the faithful. Same as the promise that a clown church might protect its beloved even when the universe was falling the fuck apart. 

Sometimes Marvus thought he knew his friend was mostly okay, but far away. Don’t ask him how. The will of the twofold gods, maybe. The spiritual, existential glue squishing their universe together — the pond set for every single choice anybody made to ripple across. Canonical, or no. Sometimes Marvus sent his friend messages — stories about his day, new lyrics, friendly wonderings about reality and religion and this show they’d both liked — but something told him nobody could see that shit anymore. It wouldn’t have been like his friend to ignore so many of his messages, otherwise. 

If Marvus could help, he would help. Of course. Until then... right now... he would start the show. 

You ready?

The lights. The roar of the crowd, all mannequins, all shadows, all clowns and all chessmen and angels. And behind them, in the rings, that screaming spectacle of a story that was Marvus’s whole world... but also wasn’t. He wasn’t a player here, but he _did_ sing a piece of the song. 

In the first ring, clowns juggled frogs and universes all at once; clowns swung from chessboard trapezes, caught in fake-combat, with sickles and juggling clubs that exploded into confetti and blood. Into candy. The second ring was a balancing act: a single clown with fake wings hanging off his back, dancing like a puppet, like a ragdoll on the high wire. Marvus knew that clown’s mind wasn’t completely his own; Marvus knew he was a loyal disciple, and he was always going to fall before the dance was over. He had to fall — _he had to surrender_ — or the story wouldn’t go right. 

The final ring had a monster in it, and maybe that monster was Alternia itself — maybe that great leviathan with tentacles oozing through the circus tent and so many golden bangles hanging off each one was the empress that drowned worlds. Or maybe not. Clowns circled her, riding unicycles decorated like starships; clowns fought her, and ran from her, and threw comical splatter-y green pies. Sometimes they won the battle, and sometimes they lost. Sometimes the creature rampaged through the audience, and Marvus ended up trying to subdue her himself before the dream was over. 

Plenty of clowns had dreams like this one churning in their darkest selves, across all of that bleeding Alternia. Not exactly the same, but tying them to the mirthful gospels, right? The Vast Honk to motherfucking come; the unknowable rage; the absurd divinity. Plenty of clowns had dreams with deep-space horrors, and glittering golden towers, and someone stricken-eyed and too earnest, with fake wings hanging off his back. Their minds were touched by chucklevoodoos, see, and chucklevoodoos could feed your dreams. All the dreams were different. All the dreams were the same. 

The future was coming, and it would’ve been easy to say the future had already come. Saying the Vast Honk was motherfucking inevitable was the same as giving a wicked amen. But Marvus believed a clown could choose his own future, too, isn’t that right? Choose what to sing about. Choose how to greet his crowd when he started up the show. And those choices mattered, even if they happened in dreams. 

This time, Marvus bantered — voice calm and easy in the face of infinity — and rapped a little, and got the mannequins laughing. He introduced the acts and felt that giggling despair he knew he was supposed to feel. But then, once the gods were honored and everything was set like a good and wound-up riddlebox, he held a hand out to his friend. Even knowing this wasn’t the way the dream wanted to go, he smiled wide and said, “Heyyyy, buddy!” The gods would’ve understood Marvus reaching for his friend, he thought — but more than that, Marvus _wanted_ to reach for his friend. He chose. 

Marvus asked his friend to get outta there with him. To eat pretzels and slimy orange cheese strolling around, talking about stuff he would try to remember when he woke up but... aw fuck it... he never exactly could. Time was playful in dreams. Voices, too. And cheese sauce was always so much tastier, because of course it was what Marvus’s mind wanted cheese sauce to be. Chucklevoodoos, lol. 

Marvus’s friend took his hand without hesitation. Gotta give it to them, right? They were the real thing. Even when Marvus was pretending at running the whole and actual shitshow of reality, his friend’s hand was small and uncannily softer than a troll’s. So solid and true in his claws. Of course a friend like this would answer Marvus’s messages, if only they could.

Taking Marvus’s hand was a choice, and getting the hell out of there was a choice, too. If he _chose_ to, maybe the clown with bruised eyes and fake wings could climb down before starting his ragdoll dance up again, one of these times. Maybe he could collapse into somebody’s arms, and say he was afraid of losing himself. Even if he was losing himself _to_ himself, in a way. Even if it was for the paradise planet to come, and for the gods. 

Marvus thought he knew the dream well enough to see that the clown with fake wings wasn’t gonna go and do a thing like that. His choices kept so much of the show around him running, didn’t they? But Marvus could tip his hat to the crowd and leave. Maybe he’d even _chosen_ to dream about his friend, here — maybe that was his own chucklevoodoos in action, changing the dream. Could be. 

It was good to hear his friend’s voice, anyway. 

Marvus had missed them. 


End file.
